


A Trip through your Wires

by thelongcon (rainer76)



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU, Kink, M/M, Ridiculous sex, Spoilers for season three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:37:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/thelongcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick doesn't think twice about attacking Woodbury with two people - three, if he includes himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Trip through your Wires

Rick doesn’t think twice about attacking Woodbury with two people - three, if he includes himself. 

Heck, he’d watched the Governor’s army with something akin to disbelief.  The way they were so easily turned about in the darkness of the Tombs, how they were frightened by the sound of creaky old gates being slammed shut, or more ominously, opened, the moans of the dead carrying through the tunnel like an old episode of _Scooby-Do._   Michonne, Daryl, Rick – they darted through the darkness like ghosts – they were the flash and the bang - the production company behind _This Haunted House._   When the Woodbury folk were chased from the prison into broad daylight, squinting and coughing, Glenn and Maggie were waiting.  Rick’s disbelief turned into contempt, watching them scatter as gunshots were fired over their head.  They’re not soldiers.  They’re civilians.  And they’ve lived life soft.

Daryl and Michonne at his side – that’s all Rick needs.

Chasing after an army with three people might be considered a touch arrogant by some – _Nah, you’re just plain touched,_ Daryl muttered before he kicked his bike into gear – but Rick will bet the skills, the fortitude of his own kind against the likes of them, and besides that, Woodbury had one of his own imprisoned inside its rotten heart.  An army against three?  Against Rick, Daryl and Michonne, pissed, armed, and looking to finish the score once and for all?  Hades itself couldn’t keep them out.

 

***

“We’re coming out,” Rick calls, ironically.  He has half a second to register Daryl’s implicit head-shake no – _no, goddammit, no_ \- before Rick holsters the Python, shoulders the rifle, and steps out into no-man’s-land.

The air is frosty, his breath gathers like a stormy cloud-front. 

A shadow paces alongside Rick, seven feet to the right – in perfect unity as they approach the walls, the sniper hidden beyond their sight.  Rick chances a glance over, brow furrowed, until Daryl raises the assault rifle from a firing position into a non-threatening one, or what qualifies as non-threatening for Daryl, even with a bullet pointed toward the stars he has faster reflexes than most.  Daryl could level that rifle in the space of an eye blink.  He’s breathing harder than Rick, indication that when Daryl said no he _meant_ no – exposed, walking out into the open, and not caring for it one bit. 

Rick steps forward, his movements perfectly shadowed, and knows Daryl’s determined to divide the sniper’s attention, backing up Rick’s play and trusting him even now.  Michonne takes longer, but that’s okay, that’s to be expected.  Rick fell _way_ shorter than her when it came to reciprocal trust. 

They step forward as a triptych, as a three-pointed triangle, a rotation between blade, arrow, and gun.  Karen stands protected in their midst, her hands upraised.  They wait, silently, until Woodbury opens its gates.

 

***

 

“You look better,” Tyreese observes. 

Rick's caught the edge of his scrutiny a dozen times now, and Tyreese hasn't done much to hide it.  He remembers their first meeting the same way a person remembers a dream: surreal, fractured into segments, mostly Rick remembers being swallowed up by paranoia.  He shifts on his feet, checking the time, teeth on edge with each second that passes. 

It’s been five minutes since the gun-shot rang out from the Governor’s ‘chamber’ and Michonne has yet to emerge.  

Daryl had stood up immediately, his expression unreadable, and began hunting through the packing crates for a drop-sheet.  He looks toward them now, one eyebrow raised.  “You two met before?”

“When you were gone,” Rick provides.  “Carl let them in…. “  He drifts off, attention returning to Tyreese. Rick’s apologised more in the last day than he has in the previous seven months, he feels scraped raw each time he does it, like he’s taking the dirt off alongside a layer of calloused skin.  It’s not a comfortable feeling. “Was bad timing.  I couldn’t extend a welcome to you then, and I’m sorry because of it, but you have it now, unless you want to remain for the Governor’s return?”

“Torture chambers and massacres on the side of the road? That feels like a push to move onward if you ask me.  I’ll talk to the folks here.  You and yours,” Tyreese nods at Daryl, indicates the door where Michonne went.  “You’ve been cast as the bogeyman around these parts.  The folks are terrified…I guess that’s what happens when you infiltrate, attack, and murder people twice in one night.”

Rick feels his spine stiffen, his fingers curl inward.  Tyreese watches him steadily. Rick doesn’t feel inclined to deny it; he had his reasons back then, namely Maggie and Glenn, and later, Daryl too.  He had his reasons for coming again tonight.  “Those that decide to come – make it clear - warm clothing, any batteries they have to spare.  Clear out the infirmary and the food, take any remaining weapons, knives, swords, axes whatever else they have hidden away.  You have a car pool around here?  Generators or gas?”

“Both.  Heavy artillery went with the Governor and his army, most of the vehicles did too, but there’s a school bus in the shed, one or two Volvos that we can load supplies with.  There's a number of generators around the place, too.”

“Good.  See to it.”

“And if some of them decide to stay?”

“Their lives, their choice.”

Tyreese tilts his head, waiting for a reaction.  “I’ll leave some food behind for them, shall I?”

It feels like a test.  It feels like driving past a hitchhiker at speed, not once but twice – it feels like a reminder of a time when Rick only stopped to strip a corpse of its supplies.   He nods, slowly.  “If any of your people decide to stay, leave them whatever’s necessary.”  Something relaxes in Tyreese, tension so fine Rick hadn’t even realised he carried it until it fled from his limbs.  

Tyreese looks at the closed door once and grimaces.  “I’m sorry about your people.  Swear I didn’t know.”

Rick doesn’t reply; there’s nothing really to say.  He watches as Tyreese turns around and leaves, ready to consult Sasha and organise the remaining Woodbury folk.  Daryl edges past.  He pauses with one hand on the door-knob, a drop-sheet clutched under his arm-pit.  “Y’all making friends when I was gone?”

 _More like trying to tear everything asunder,_ Rick doesn’t say. 

He turns and studies the door where Andrea and Michonne are waiting for them both.  “Let’s take her home.”

 

***

 

Three things become apparent within days.  One: the Woodbury folk don’t like them overly much.  Two:  Living inside a prison compared to living beside tree-studded streets, manicured lawns, cosy houses, leaves a little to be desired.  “There are Walkers here, _within_ the building itself,” someone complains.  

“C and D block are both secure,” Rick explains for what feels like the third time.  “There are keys to the prison.  They’re not getting anywhere close to us.” 

“What if they do?” someone else presses.  “What if they over-run us, surround us when we’re safe in our prison block, what then?  They can starve us out, you know, locked inside a cell with no escape.  If a herd is on the other side of those bars they won’t leave, all they have to do is wait.  What kind of safety is that?”

“They won’t get the drop on us,” Rick maintains, striving for calm.  "They won't surround us." 

“How do you know? _How do you know?_ ”

And thirdly:  Carl and Daryl react badly to the new arrivals, albeit in different ways.

Rick’s son had no interaction with children since Sophia died, he carried on his shoulder’s not only the weight of Lori’s death, but Shane and Dale, too.  Something cruel flickers in his eyes when he stares at the new arrivals. Carl measures the kids as potential foes - he does it naturally as breathing - searching for weaknesses.  He doesn’t talk to the kids, preferring the company of adults, and he gets angrier each time Rick directs him toward people his own age.  

Innocence burned out of Carl a long time ago.

“What would you have done?” Rick asks, late one night.

“Kept Tyreese and Sasha, we should have given them a home the _first_ time round.”  Carl doesn’t meet his eyes.  His voice carries as a low monotone.  The brim of his hat shadows half of his face, only the smooth line of his jaw on display.  There’s resentment in every word uttered.  “You should never have sold out Michonne, or even _thought_ about it.  They’re fighters, dad, they’re the ones you _keep_.  The others?  The old folk?  They’re a drain on the resources _and_ our food.  Should have left them to rot.”

He looks up quickly, almost defiantly. 

Rick doesn’t know if Carl’s pragmatic or psychotic, blinking hard and quick as an ache blossoms in the back of his throat.  “You’re right,” he says eventually.  “And they’re good points, all of them.  But did you know Mr. Granister was a horticulturist?  One of those retirees you would have left behind for dead?  When our food runs out, and that’s a certainty make no mistake, it doesn’t matter if we take more people in or not the food _will_ run out, it’s Mr. Granister’s knowledge and skills that may keep us alive.   Or did you know Mrs Hashmet…”

“Was a daytime carer for pre-schoolers,” Carl interrupts, curtly. 

He’s furious, and Rick doesn’t know where it sprang from.  “In America,” Rick agrees calmly.  “But she was a medical practitioner when she lived in Persia before the revolution.  She couldn’t practice medicine without re-sitting the exams here, and she couldn’t afford the money to go back to college when she was a refugee and penniless.  You think they’re worthless because they’re old?”  Rick tips Carl’s hat upward, forcing eye-contact, trying to get his point across.  “Maybe you ought to consider the years of _experience_ they have to offer, and how that experience can help keep us alive, before you condemn them as useless.”

Carl jerks out of reach.  “We survived on our own for seven months, with whatever food Daryl could hunt and whatever else we could scavenge.”

“We were starving to death.”

“We were _manageable._   This large a group?  There will be jackals nipping at us in months and there’s not enough guns to protect us.”

Carl was sitting in the back seat when Rick drove past a hitch-hiker without slowing down.  He stood inside a barn when Rick almost executed a boy only five years older than him.  When Lori died Rick was unable to function - let alone look after the emotional state of his son - it was Daryl who had done that, walking the Tombs with Carl at his side, talking about perception, moms, about having everything you considered _home_ explode around you. When Rick was tearing Walkers apart, mad with grief, Daryl’s priorities had been the opposite.  Keep lil asskicker alive and find a way to get Carl to talk about it.  Rick hadn’t been there for either of his children during those months – somehow, he feels like he’s paying for it now.

“I need to walk the perimeter,” Carl states.  He stands up before Rick can interrupt.   He looks at his father once as if he’s about to add something - doubt, or maybe accusation in his eyes - before he shrugs it off.

 

 

***

 

When he finds Daryl, Michonne is with him, two figures in the night, lean as blades.  Daryl’s wearing the Navajo poncho, the crossbow secured to his bike. Michonne turns when Rick approaches, teeth flashing in a grin, they’re halfway through a conversation and Rick can hear the tease in her voice.  “…girl said you have lithe shoulders and icy-blue eyes.”

Unimpressed, Daryl snorts.  Rick feels his mouth quirk into a grin. _Lithe?_ He repeats silently.  For his effort, Daryl flips him off. 

“I hope you’re quoting one of the kids, otherwise we might need a dictionary around these parts.”  It’s an in-joke, it’s a reminder of a confrontation between Andrea and Daryl and the secret, dual meaning of words.  It’s Daryl tapping his forehead twice and saying _Observant._

Daryl’s all narrow hips and a flat stomach, but after that he’s a classic Y.  Lattismus dorsi, teres major, teres minor leading up into the deltoids and toward the trapezius, he’s leashed power across the back and torso - throughout the shoulders and down through his arms - he’s cut with muscle.  Lithe means lean.  But it also means to be slight _,_ flexible _,_ or _supple_ , the derivative explanation is: ‘to be unable to withstand applied force.  To be easily bent or bowed’, and that doesn't apply to Daryl. Withstanding applied force, Rick thinks, is something Daryl has done his entire life.

Rick looks between the two of them, amused.  He hazards: “Some girl has a crush?”

“I think he has _women_ with crushes on him,” Michonne corrects.  “They’re seizing him up like a lamb to the slaughter.”

“But not you,” Daryl states over his shoulder.  Michonne shrugs carelessly, eyes sweeping the dark. 

“Personally, I would have chosen Andrea over the both of you, slim pickings these days.  If some guy _does_ throw his leg over yours, then pregnancy is a game of Russian roulette I can live without.  Best hook up with someone you actually _care_ for, regardless of gender.”  She looks at Daryl, eyes glinting.  “So, Mr. Lithe-Shoulders and Icy blue eyes, you’re not exactly my type.”

“Sweetheart,” Daryl murmurs, and Rick can’t tell if he’s talking to his bike or Michonne.  “That’s why I like you best.”  Michonne laughs, darkly sweet, and Rick stares at them both, startled at the apparent ease between them.

Despite Michonne’s claims, Rick _can_ see them together, imagine her hands on Daryl’s shoulders as she rode him, slick, _messy,_ her teeth at his nape.  They’d move over each other like water, fluid and directionless.  They’d find parched terrain and soak into each other’s skin. 

Rick sways, mouth parted, his hands pressed flat against his thigh. 

Michonne glances at him, too observant by far.  “I have a katana that needs sharpening.”  She withdraws, feet crunching on the gravel as she walks away.

“I want to go hunting tomorrow,” Daryl admits after she’s gone.

“For game?”

“No, for the Governor.  Just because our showdown amounted to nothing doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten him.  Or what he did to my brother.”

“I’ll come with.”

“Michonne said she’d go.”  Daryl checks the fuel-line on his bike, hair falling into his eyes.  His voice is quiet when he explains.  “Rick, you got people here who need tending…civilised people…and Michonne and me, we’re the wild.  Maybe Carl, too.  We’re not farmer Joe material.  Never were.  The Governor’s still a threat, that hasn’t changed, and he won’t stop.  This way, we’re being useful to you - Glenn, Maggie, Hershel, they have your back, and they’re good with the townsfolk.  Let Michonne and me do our thing.”

Rick went to Woodbury with no other purpose than to kill the Governor - and every man and woman who stood beside him.   Rick’s not exactly civilised either, but he wants to be, for Carl and Judith’s sake if no one else.  He went to that town with two people at his side, Rick can’t let either of them go. 

“How long is this hunt going to be?”

Daryl shrugs.  “Dunno.  But we spent seven months on those roads, going around in circles because the herds kept cutting us off.  I have an idea or two as to where they may be holed up, and if they went overland, if they’re on foot, well that’s my domain.  Michonne’s too.  I want to scalp that sonofabitch.”

Over the course of their journey, Rick gave away his hat, his badge, and his handcuffs.  Inside the prison, two of those items were returned, or more accurately, were replaced.   Carl still wears the hat.  Rick has shackles, restraints; he has any number of handcuffs at his disposal and none of them will do him any good.  He closes the space between them, body front and centre, every movement telegraphed.

Used to be he was more familiar with the press of breasts, the gentle curve of a hip, of Lori’s hair brushing his nape.  Now it’s the smooth plane of a male torso reflecting his own, of hard cocks, desire easily inferred.  Used to be he smelled perfume, saw make-up covering the blemishes – and now it’s the wild scent of trees and earth, of rough honesty at his fingertips. Rick hooks a hand around Daryl’s shoulders and jerks him close – chest, stomach, cock, and thighs aligned – his mirror darkly. 

Daryl bites him, sinks his teeth in deep, he rolls up against Rick almost indolently.  He soothes the hurt a moment later, hands at Rick’s belt, palm pressing hard against his cock.  “We’ll be quick,” he promises, and Rick wonders if he’s talking about the sex or the hunt.

“Wasn’t interested in quick... I thought I’d give you a reason to come back.”

It’s been rushed hand-jobs between them mostly, but there was one afternoon when Rick had twitched and groaned.  Body split open on fingers, penetrated by tongue; his hands had clutched at nothing, cuffed above his head.  There was one afternoon when he lost all comprehension of words, pleasure so silken he’d sobbed.  His cock lay fat – _heavy_ \- neglected on his stomach, awareness reduced to strong shoulders that kept his legs spread wide  - of licks that teased his rim, brought him to the edge and _kept_ him there.  Too much and not enough.   Aching, Rick had thought he’d only just clawed his way back to sanity, it wasn’t fair Daryl could strip it all away.

It’s full dark, in this segment of the prison yard. 

Rick could drag him up the remaining watchtower, but he’s not inclined to delay.  And C-block, D-block, well, their population increased three-fold, and Rick’s not interested in giving them a show.   The only good thing about the Woodbury folk is that they’re accustomed to curfew, reluctant to step outside the cells after twilight.  They’re not likely to be wandering around alone, which only leaves Rick’s people, and they’ve all lived in each other’s back pockets long enough to look the other way.

Lithe, he thinks, isn’t a good description for Daryl’s shoulders. 

He’s predatory.   Lithe means supple or flexible, and Rick _does_ like that description, but for entirely different reasons and none of it related to his shoulders.  It means easily bent – bent over, split apart, exposed and naked - balanced on the tail-end of his bike.  It means unable to withstand applied force - and after Rick wets his fingers, stretches him sweet - Daryl _can’t_ withstand the applied force.  His hole clenches against the intrusion, relaxes, then spasms again, it gives up under the relentless force of a single, stuttering, thrust.   Rick watches the muscles in Daryl's back ripple, his feet scrabble against the dirt, contact between them eased by spit and by sweat.  Rick’s slow, he’s not interested in doing damage, he gains a little at a time until he’s seated, until his teeth are aching with the heat of it.

They've done this a few times, but never like this, so dirty quick.

“You heard of a ball separator?  It’s called a 'cage' if you have metal, but it’s a 'sling' if you only have rope, which is all I got I’m afraid.”  There’s pleasure curling up Rick’s spine, arching down through his toes.  There’s sweat in his eyes and Daryl under him, pushing against him, trying to hit the perfect spot.  It’s all Rick can do to keep _talking_ , to stave the orgasm off as long as possible, to make his promise known. 

“The rope circles the scrotum, pulling the balls down, and then you hitch a knot and rope up through the _middle_ , separating the balls until they’re tight globes, hanging independent of one another, the skin pulled taut. If you have any left over cord you wrap it around the root of the dick, tie it off with a neat knot or a ribbon if you like.”  Under him, Daryl groans.  He clenches around Rick’s cock like a fucking _vice,_ until Rick doesn’t know who’s torturing whom, pleasure so intense he almost bites his tongue.  He plants his hand against Daryl’s spine, keeps his torso pressed flat against the bike and holds him there.   “You can’t come like that, you can’t shoot your load or get off with your testicles roped off.  So, when you _do_ ride out of here tomorrow morning on your hunt, you’re going to go with your balls wrapped up tight.  It’s going to feel like my _hand_  around you, and every vibration of that zouped up engine, every pot-hole you hit, you’ll feel that too.  Until the moment you come home.”

Daryl whines, low and cut off.  He twists desperately until Rick starts thrusting again, easy now, rocking slow as a sailboat.  He peels Daryl upward from the bike until he can touch his own cock, matching Rick’s rhythm effortlessly…in this as in everything else.   “You won’t stay out long, because this is where you belong.”

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the three-word prompt:
> 
> Possessive. Restraints. Lithe.
> 
> Tried to touch on all three, but mostly, I just kept circling back to that conversation Merle has with Daryl in 3x15…you know the one I mean.


End file.
